


at least i'll leave this world

by XellyChan



Series: interludes and roadstops [10]
Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Dissociation, Gen, M/M, death and dreams
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-09
Updated: 2015-04-09
Packaged: 2020-11-28 03:16:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20959562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/XellyChan/pseuds/XellyChan
Summary: "And you aren’t scared? You’re always scared.”This is a land of giants.





	at least i'll leave this world

**Author's Note:**

> I.........don't know what this is. I began writing this 4-5 years ago. I just brushed the dust off the draft and decided to post it as is.
> 
> As with all my outlast stuff, this was probably supposed to be longer. Somehow it just ended up weird, tho.

This is a land of giants. 

When Miles says so, Waylon taps the cool rim of his soda can on the dip of his lower lip, then nods gravely and replies, “I'll most likely die before long.”

“Hmm,” Miles says solemnly, reaching up to brush his fingers against tall golden stalks of wheat. His hands are trembling. “We still have time before your inevitable demise.”

There is no path ahead of them. Nothing behind them either, and when Waylon stands, mouth dry and overly sweet in the spring sun, he counts small and empty blessings. And when he tilts his chin to regard Miles from beneath too long hair, Waylon allows himself to consider the number equal to the splatter of freckles cropping up across tawny skin. 

He says, almost dismissive but not quite so unkind, “Nevermind that.” His eyes slide to the side, tracking the bruised edges of sunspots, expression lax and humorless. "Never mind, for now." 

"You're not nervous," Miles says, but it sounds like an accusation, but he's sure he once meant it as a question. He has a hard time keeping track, now. "You're gonna die." He shuffles in place, both hands now at his side.”And you aren’t scared? You’re always scared.” 

Waylon lifts a shoulder and remains silent. The can crumples in his thin hands. It's the only sound in this small space, surrounded on all sides by earthy gold. After a while, he, with a weary smile, held out his hand, pale wrist pointed to the sky, and reminds Miles (_in that same tired and relieved voice that sets Miles' teeth on edge, so far away, like he's already gone_), "Soon I’ll die, but not yet. I’ll be scared then, I don't want to be scared right now." The can drops to the ground between their feet, bright red against trampled earth.

Miles clenches his teeth around his missing finger, grinding his molars over the gnarled stump. He  _ wants _ , he’s always  _ wanting _ , but Waylon’s easy acceptance makes a new pit open in his belly. It tastes nothing like hunger but of jangling metal and sand. It grits in his throat (_and somewhere, Billy is crying. It sounds like bone being ground to meal_).

He says nothing and they pack their few belongings and begin to move. Waylon walks slowly, mindful of each step and favoring his right side. Miles strains himself to rope down each lingering question that clings to his mouth.

This is a land of giants. 


End file.
